


Tumblr drabbles

by Death_inspiresme



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Babysitter Peter Parker, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Superior Iron Man Vol 1. (2015), Unresolved Sexual Tension, Villain Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_inspiresme/pseuds/Death_inspiresme
Summary: A collection of fics/drabbles that were originally posted on my tumblr, @im-a-goner-foryou





	1. Superior Iron Man / MCU Spider-Man (pt. 1)

"Frankly, I'm impressed," Iron Man says off-handedly, back facing towards Peter as he continues to decant the bottle of Cheval Blanc in hand into a glass-- his only acknowledgement of the arrival of an uninvited guest being this praise. "How'd you manage to get through the high security protocols on the way up, Spiderman?" Raising the glass of red wine to his lips and downing it in a single gulp, the man sighs contentedly before turning around to face the figure stood in the centre of the room.

"I climbed," Peter replies, and gives himself a mental pat on the back-- he only detects the slightest waver of fear in his voice-- but suddenly realises that perhaps confronting an enemy in their own million-dollar penthouse isn't such a great idea. Still, there's no going back now. He clutches at the back of a chair as support; watches warily as Stark pours himself another drink before offering the glass out to him. Peter stares at the outstretched hand, mind racing. Is this a joke? It probably is, right? To be greeted by a repulsor blast straight to the chest-- that's expectable when dealing with villains like Iron Man; to be offered booze? Not so much. "N-no, I'm not old enough to drink," he says, immediately regretting the words even as they leave his mouth.

Peter's never quite hated himself more than in that very moment, but Stark, on the other hand, just can't contain his hilarity at the entire situation anymore; he lets out a loud bark of laughter, shoots a feral grin over the rim of his glass that has Peter's stomach flipping violently. "Ooh, well aren't you a righteous spirit through and though, Peter Parker?"

And he does falter then-- feels his knees wobble and threaten to give out underneath him, the blood pounding through his veins turning cold. Despite himself Peter takes a slight step backwards, attempts to hide the rising fear choking him with controlled words instead. "You know my name?"

Clicking his tongue in faux disappointment, Stark shakes his head, swallows another mouthful of liquor-- Peter's eyes reflexively track the bob of his prominent Adam's apple, before he quickly snaps his gaze back up to that chiselled face. "You're hurting my feelings here, kid," Iron Man chuckles, and Peter flinches as he slams his glass defeaningly onto the island table. " 'course I do-- I know you're still a junior at Midtown High, I know all about your tragic backstory before you became a crime-fighting vigilante. I know all of your dirty little secrets, and not just yours but just about everyone else's in this goddamn country, too-- _I. know. everything,"_ the man says, speaking in a slow, lazy drawl even as his piercingly blue eyes sweep over Peter in a way that has the boy's skin crawling and cheeks flushing warm-- thank god he'd kept his mask on, at least. "And I'd let you in on a little secret, sweetheart: knowledge is power."

Try as he might to not let the condescending pet name affect him, Peter can't help but squirm a little at that singular word alone; Stark's sharp gaze pins onto him, corner of his lips curling upwards into a knowing smirk, and Peter hurriedly attempts to steer the conversation back to what's at hand. "So you must know why I'm here, then."

The older man doesn't reply immediately. He instead leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest; he would have looked almost languid, if it weren't for the slight tightness in his defined jaw giving him away. For several moments Stark silently examines him-- and Peter, not willing to let himself be intimidated, meets those icy blue eyes head on; chin raising a little defiantly as the older man continues to pick him apart with only an intense gaze.

Finally, he pushes himself off the edge of the counter to cross the room in two long strides; stalking so close Peter has to crane his neck to look at him-- and from this much nearer the boy just can't help but notice the flecks of silver glinting among dark hair, the grey stubble dusting Stark's neatly trimmed goatee. Peter swallows, hard; fuck, but the man seems so much bigger in his armour, the metal encasing his entire body a startlingly sleek white and Peter absolutely should not be salivating at how impossibly broader it makes his shoulders look.

He startles when Stark finally breaks the charged silence to say flatly, "you're not a fan of Extremis 3.0, are you?"

"No, I can't say I am."

"Well, _I_ can't say I'm surprised." Tony stares down at him, and with his back to the windows shadowy darkness shrouds all his features-- all except for his eyes, electric blue and drawing Peter in despite himself. "Let's just say that you and I, Parker-- we're different. People like you would never understand, appreciate the true potential behind an idea this big."

The cold undercurrent of Stark's tone is what finally snaps Peter out of it. "I don't have to understand it," he says, heart slamming against his ribcage so forcefully he hears it in his ears. "To want to stop it."

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches out between them like a string pulled taut--

Until it snaps. With an animalistic snarl Stark lunges forward, and Peter only manages to duck just in time; gasping, he aims his webshooters at the other's legs-- or at least, attempts to, before a large hand encircles his arm to shove him backwards. Stumbling on his feet, Peter struggles uselessly as he's manhandled up against the marble walls of Stark's living quarters-- insides twisting with fear as he catches the glint of those canines under the florescent lights.

 _"Please,"_ the gasp for help reflexively slips past his lips, and Stark gives another one of those cruel laughs of his again; patronizing, grating against the ears. The metal grip around his upper arm tightens to the point of painful, brings tears to his eyes, but Peter refuses to let them fall-- he stares fully back at the man before him instead, who seems to delight in this.

"Begging already, sweetheart?" he croons, reaching up with another hand to caress his mask-covered cheek, gauntlet metal cold and unforgiving as a thumb drags under his jaw to curl around the edges of his mask. "Don't you think it's rude to wear this as a guest at someone else's home?" Stark hums, then with one sharp yank he pulls the fabric off Peter's face-- cold air hits his tear stained cheeks, and he's not given the time to even gasp in surprise before armoured fingers are hooking underneath his chin to tilt his face upwards; his head knocks against the wall behind.

Is it just the tears blurring his vision, but do Stark's eyes seem to be glowing? Glinting, perhaps, with something dark and almost feral as they drag hungrily over every inch of his exposed face. Peter writhes under the hold, but it's unyielding, and all he manages to achieve is the man stepping forward to bodily cage him against the wall-- Stark's armoured chest pinning him down, broad thighs forcing his legs apart.

Their noses mere inches away from each other, the man sighs appreciatively, "oh, you're much prettier when not on a holo-screen."

This was a bad idea-- unarguably his worst one ever. Peter is trapped, helpless, held up against a wall and an absolute madman; he knows when to drop his pride. "Please let me go," he whispers, forcing himself to make eye contact instead of hiding his face-- he can only imagine how wrecked he looks, cheeks a ruddy pink and streaked with tears, matted lashes tangling as he blinks back more. Stark ignores his plead, tilting his chin this way and that; eyes seemingly devouring him whole. "I won't tell," Peter lies, flinching slightly as the man cups his cheek. "I promise I won't."

A long exhale of breath escapes Stark; for a split second amusement shows plainly on his features, before that same darkness takes over again. "Tell... what, exactly? And _who_ , the police? I'm sure they can keep a secret for me," the man says. Then he tilts his head, as though pretending to think it through. "You're going to have to raise your offer, pretty boy."

"I--" Peter gasps, finally tearing his gaze away as he feels the tips of his ears burn; why does hearing an unhinged villain call him _pretty_ in that gravelly voice affect him so much? "I don't--"

"Don't worry, I'll give you some time to think it through," Stark says smoothly, his signature arrogant smirk hanging off his lips now. "In the meantime, how 'bout I share another little secret with you, hmm? Just between the both of us," his voice dips into a low growl, head dropping forward until the sharp curve of his nose brushes against the flutter of Peter's lashes; Peter can almost taste the alcohol on the older man's breath.

"Well, here goes nothing: I have a... _thing,_ for pretty little boys like you," Stark drawls, chapped, cold lips mouthing along Peter's jaw, thumb and forefinger still gripping onto his him so tight he hears a creak. "Y'know, those with the innocent doe eyes, always pleading, always biting on their lips..." A thumb drags roughly over the abused flesh of his red bottom lip, forces his jaw open and slips its way inside his mouth; Peter tastes the tang of metal across his tongue, cold and slippery, and can no longer suppress a loud sob. He squeezes his eyes shut in humiliation as it bursts forth from his lips-- feels Stark groan, shudder against him.

"Oh _sweetheart_ , how'd you know I love it when they cry?" is the final growled confession against his ear; then fingers are twisting in his hair to slam his head backwards against the wall, and blinding pain shoots through his skull-- then everything fades to black.


	2. Single dad! Tony / babysitter! Peter (pt. 1)

It's only the first day of his new job, and already Peter's having second thoughts about the whole thing.

It's not like Harley's a problem child, or anything like that. On the contrary, the bubbly three-year-old has to be the sweetest boy Peter's had the chance of babysitting, something he's incredibly grateful for-- he shudders to think about Mrs Stark's reaction upon finding out her son broke a million-dollar house ornament while under Peter's care-- no, the issue was that the Stark residence is the most opulent estate Peter's ever seen, luxurious enough to make the glossy pictures in those modish home design magazines look frumpy in comparison. To say that Peter had been surprised to walk into the fully marbled, high ceiling, lavish parlour was an understatement; his knees actually wobbled, and he would have sunk down onto one of the many couches if they weren't clearly designer and made of pristine white leather.

Glancing down at the address on his phone screen in a panic, he entertained for the first time the idea that maybe this was all a huge mistake. "Uhm, Mrs--"

"It's just Pepper, I don't really do the whole _'Mrs Stark'_ thing. What is it?" Pepper interrupted, sounding more than a little tired; still, she certainly made a picture perfect image against the backdrop of the pristine mansion standing tall in a gorgeous sapphire blue dress, the boy resting on her cocked hip gazing at Peter curiously with his huge brown eyes while tugging on strands of his mother's blond hair.

"Miss Pepper," Peter immediately rushed to correct himself, feeling the tips of his ears burn at the mild eye roll this garners him. "I was just-- Uh." _Wondering if this is just one big screw up, because there's no way a family this affluent will pick a mere high schooler off a babysitting website rather than a professional caretaker._ "Hoping to go over the whole arrangement again, just to be sure?" he finished lamely.

"Oh. It's fairly simple, I thought I was clear enough on the phone earlier." Frowning down at her wristwatch as though thinking about the other more productive errands she'd rather be doing than talk to some daft teenager, Pepper sighed, "you'll look after Harley five days a week, provide the basic babysitting service, drop him off and pick him up from daycare; I'll text you all of the info you need about his feeding schedule and nap times later. Tony comes home every day around eight-- of course, if he'll just take more time off work we wouldn't have to deal with hiring a caretaker in the first place," the last sentence venomous under her breath.

Peter had blinked nervously, unsure how or if he's supposed to respond but before he could decide, an armful of toddler is thrusted upon him. Gathering up her purse, Pepper then instructed primly, "well, I'm going to be busy tonight, so if you have any questions just message Tony."

And just like that she turnt and left with a flick of her ponytail, heels clicking sharply against the across the sparkling linoleum-- and before Peter could point out that he didn't have her husband's number.

Mind still reeling from this turn of events, it was only Harley's vigorous squirming in his arms that snapped him out of his daze. Looking down a little helplessly at the wiggling boy he mused, "so, Harles. You like cupcakes?"

\--------

...Which turnt out to be another one of Peter's bad ideas, as evident by the sticky situation- _literally_ \- he's now in, vanilla icing smeared all over the beautiful marble countertops along with flour and powdered sugar and god knows what else; Peter nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to tidy the kitchen up to its once spotless state-- which was not an easy feat (who knew a single three year old could cause this extent of damage in those very few seconds Peter had taken his eyes off him to go preheat the oven?)

He was just bending over the island table to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain when he hears the distinct clearing of a throat right behind him, and the high pitched shriek that slips past his lips is something he'll vehemently deny later on.

"Woah there," a voice speaks up, unmistakably male from the deep intonation of his words. "Did I scare you? I'm sorry," the man adds, and for some absurd reason Peter feels liquid heat pool in his belly at just that silky low baritone alone, tinged slightly with amusement--

It's only then does the teen finally register the compromising position he's currently in, standing on his tiptoes and leaning over the counter so his ass is arched high in the air... right in front of his employer.

This first day is _not_ turning out in his favour.

Feeling himself blush to the tips of his ears, Peter scrambles to stand upright once more, whirling around while holding his breath in anticipation of the annoyed expression he'll surely be greeted with-- but what he didn't expect to see is a devilishly handsome man, dressed in a three-button suit that fits so perfectly snug around those broad shoulders and firm chest it should be illegal; and for the second time in just a few hours Peter actually feels himself go weak at the knees once more, because _holy shit_ this fine specimen of a man was _not_ in his job description when he very well should be; if he had known how fucking hot Harley's dad is he would have brought his inhaler, or something.

"Hey, you okay?" the man- Tony, a dazed part of Peter's mind helpfully supplies- asks, chocolate dark eyes examining him in a way that leaves him in serious danger of swooning. "You look a little pale... Peter, isn't it?" The boy only nods dumbly in affirmation, but Tony smiles warmly. "I'm Harley's father. Nice to meet you."

Brain finally catching up, Peter blurts, "I know," before realising just how bad that sounds and backpedalling quickly. "Wait-- _no_ , I just meant I already knew-- that you're Harley's dad, I mean... Uh, Mrs Stark told me earlier... I-I'm Peter by the way, shit you already knew that," he babbles, cheeks flushing hotter with every squeaky word that leaves his mouth until he's sure that he's a cherry red by the time Tony raises a hand to stop him.

"Okay, okay! Slow down there, kiddo," he chuckles, and fuck even his laugh sounds so incredibly sexy it's _unfair_ , Peter's just a teenaged boy with daddy issues; he doesn't stand a chance. "Give your old man here some time to catch up, will ya?"

"Sorry," Peter instinctively says, or squeaks, more like; tucking his chin into his chest his shoulders fold forward in mortification,  painfully aware of how ridiculous he must seem to the older man. _Get it together, Parker. You're being pathetic._

His mental beration abruptly cuts off, however, as Tony begins to shrug off his suit jacket, dress shirt underneath stretching thin over his biceps as he drapes it over the back of a chair and _holy shit, holy shit_ the urge to just reach out and trace over those defined muscles with his fingers is so overwhelming Peter has to grab at the edge of the countertop. "You don't mind, do you? I've had a long day at work is all," Tony says apologetically.

 _Nope. He does not mind at all, not one bit._ "It-- it's okay, Mr Stark."

That earns him another warm smile, hardened lines across the man's face deepening along with the crinkling at the edges of his eyes. "Oh, you're sweet." --Peter actually feels his legs threaten to buckle underneath him at that-- then Tony's eyes drag almost lazily over his body, and his lips curve into a roguish grin as he adds, "...and that cute little apron you've got on there certainly helps your image."

 _Fuck_. Oh, god, until then he'd forgotten the apron he had found and hastily thrown on earlier-- and not just any apron, but a frilly soft pink one complete with a lacy hem-- not unlike the ones housewives donned back in the nineties or something. Peter actually buries his face in his hands with a groan then, so overcome with humiliation. "I'm sorry, I just found it in one of the drawers..."

"It's alright, Pep never uses it anyways," Tony says dismissively, his next words pitching lower into one of a drawl that makes Peter shiver. "...Plus it looks much better on you, sweetheart."

Peter peeks out shyly from behind his fingers then, only to gasp; for the look on Tony's face that greets him can only be described as hungry, dark with unmistakable lust and something else he can't quite decipher but leaves him breathless for more-- the combination of both that gaze pinned heavy on him and the use of that pet name is enough to draw something akin to a keening whine from the back of his throat that he quickly tries to smoother into a cough. "Really?" he mumbles, hiding his pleased flush as best as he can.

Tony grins knowingly. "Oh, for sure. I've never seen anyone look prettier in an apron than you, sweetheart," he purrs, closing up whatever remaining distance between them in two confident strides; Peter gasps, automatically backing up until his back hits the edge of the island table, the older man effectively pinning him there. Staring up into darkening eyes through fluttering lashes, Peter draws his bottom lip in between his teeth- nervous habit- and hopes that Tony won't catch the wild thudding of his hear against his ribcage at their close proximity; the man's expensive cologne fills his senses, makes his head spin with pure want and has him subconsciously licking at his lips.

Tony's next words come out more gravelly and deeper than before. "You've got a little bit of icing on your face," he grunts, and before Peter has the chance to respond he's reaching forward to swipe at his flushed skin with a calloused thumb. Breath hitching at the tender touch, Peter sways on his feet as the huge palm cradles his cheek for a split second-- then just like that it's over and Tony's stepping back, the loss of him enough to make the younger teen whimper pitifully.

"All clean now," Tony mutters, sounding decidedly more strained than a few moments ago; Peter's no better with his raggedly falling breaths, and the tent rapidly forming at the front of his skinny jeans-- maybe wearing the apron's not such a bad decision, after all.

"Thanks, Mr Stark," he squeaks, and he swears the older man's eyes darkened at that; gaze darting away from the intensity of that stare, Peter focuses instead on the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. Pepper should be home soon--

Shit. A fresh wave of guilt crashes over Peter for the first time that night at the thought of Pepper-- Tony's _wife_. How could he be so stupid? Mr Stark's a married man, for Christ's sake-- not to mention a father as well, to a child Peter's _supposed_ to be looking after. He's here to babysit, not be swept off his feet by a rich older man, as appealing as the second option sounds.

And yet-- the way Mr Stark had looked at him earlier, gaze almost predatory as he crowded him in...

Shaking his head as though that would get rid of his thoughts, Peter hurriedly unties the apron and stammers, "I, uh, I should go--"

"Wait. You don't have my number, do you?" Tony frowns, grabbing his forearm lightly to stop him from reaching for his backpack. When Peter shakes his head no, the man reaches into the breast pocket of his discarded suit to pull out a business card. "Here. Just in case... you know," he shrugs. "You have questions about Harley, or whatever."

"Yeah, about-- Harley," Peter echoes, taking the card; their fingers brush against each other as he does so, and he can't help but shiver at the contact; he thinks he catches a small grin out of the corner of his eye. "It was nice meeting you, Mr Stark."

And there's another one of those smiles; Peter feels his stomach flutter again. Stupid. "Pleasure's all mine. I'll see you soon, Parker," Tony says smoothly, shooting him a quick wink as he releases his hold. Peter practically flies out of the front door on trembling legs-- taking care not to crash into any glass ornaments on the way, of course.

This new turn of events definitely add another compliation to his job, that's for sure; and yet Peter walks home that day with his heart hammering in his chest, cheeks still tinged pink... and with a giddy smile on his lips.


	3. 70's pimp! Tony / prostitute! Peter

" _Fuck_ \- yeah, just like that darling," thin, delicate fingers wind themselves into Peter's hair, pulling at his curls just sharply enough for him to feel the prickling pain and to draw a high whine from his throat. He pumps his fist hurriedly around the rock hard cock in his hand, making sure to twist his wrist on every upward stroke just how he knows the other man likes it; and sure enough this earns him a gravelly moan of "look so good down on your knees for me, god..."

Noting how Stephen's hips now stutter off the bed in erratic thrusts forward, Peter then leans closer to lay his head on the man's lap, fluttering his lashes a tad excessively and widening his eyes to play up the innocent look that never fails to completely unravel most of his clients, all the while never ceasing in his steady jerking movements of his hand. Stephen's startlingly light blue eyes pin hungrily on him as though to devour him whole; mewling softly, Peter begins to roll his own hips downwards to hump the floor like a puppy in heat, grinning inwardly at the low growl this earns him.

In a final act he allows his mouth to fall open ever so slightly and sticks his tongue out to whimper a needy little " _ohhh, please Doctor,"_ and just like that the fingers in his hair are tightening hard enough for tears to well up in his eyes; chest rumbling with a low snarl Stephen ruts his hips upward to rub his leaking cockhead all over Peter's cheek, smearing pre-come across his flushed skin until the kneeling boy widens his mouth further to allow the throbbing girth in. Bobbing his head jerkily and drooling all over Stephen's cock Peter then gurgles out wetly "give me your come Sir, please? I need it so bad, please Doctor I wanna feel your come fill me up--"

 _"Fuck, fuck!"_ Stephen grunts, hips snapping forward one final time before the cock inside Peter's mouth twitches, then spills hot and sticky fluid down his throat that he expertly swallows with a happy hum.

"Thank you, Doctor," Peter sighs syrup sweet, making a show of licking his glistening lips, running his tongue messily up the length of Stephen's softening cock like a child would lick at a lollipop. "You taste so good."

Cursing weakly at that, Stephen shakes his head and pants "Christ, you're going to be the death of me," before beckoning Peter up with a crook of his finger. Smiling shyly now, Peter rises obediently to his feet and allows the older man to kiss him, laving his tongue over the other's lips in kitten licks.

Stephen groans, deep and guttural in his chest.

"You're a treasure... wish I could bring you home with me," he sighs-- not for the first time, finally pulling away as though forcing himself to do so; he frowns as his his gaze falls to the shiny Rolex adorning his wrist, however. "Shit, it's already five minutes past, I need to go before Stark comes bursting through the door or something. Here--" pulling his leather wallet out of his slacks, the man deftly plucks a few hundred dollar notes and stuffs it into Peter's hand, along with an almost fond kiss to his brow. "Thank you for tonight darling, you were perfect as always."

Peter can't help but blush at that, pocketing the bills inside the pink satin panties Stephen had ordered him to wear for their session. "You flatter me too much, Doctor," he giggles bashfully, leaning forward to press his lips to the man's cheek.

"Anything for you, Pete. Go on now; I can show myself out, I know how Stark can get sometimes about tardiness." Stephen huffs, waving a hand at the door to gesture him out-- but not before swatting his ass one last time before he leaves, of course.

Still blushing slightly from Stephen's silky smooth words earlier, Peter bounds down the stairs to his quarters in the basement, passing a few others along the way; he waves at Harley in greeting, the other boy nestled up on the common couch beside and chatting up a much older man. Upon arriving at the door to his room, however, Peter quickly recognizes the burning scent of cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air-- which can only mean one thing... or person. Groaning inwardly, he steels himself in preparation of what will surely come next, before twisting the doorknob open and barging inside his room.

Not surprisingly, a low drawl of _"you're late,"_ is the very first thing that greets him. How typical. Wrinkling his nose at the now more intense smell of smoke inside, Peter's unable to keep the annoyed scowl off his face as he kicks off his red stiletto heels before striding over to the mirror hanging on the wall at the other side of the room-- determinedly fixing his gaze forward and away from the unmistakable figure sprawled lazily on his couch.

Of course, Stark wouldn't have any of that. "Hey, you deaf or something Parker?"

"Go away," Peter grumbles to his stubborn reflection in the mirror; he looks positively wrecked. Grabbing some makeup wipes he then goes about cleaning away the cherry-red stains smeared all over his lips and lower chin that is his lipstick-- Stephen had been specially rough tonight, seemed to enjoy messing him up more than usual. Peter couldn't exactly complain; the man had paid extra for it, after all. "Y'know, you're not even supposed to be in my room, Mr Stark."

Unfortunately, that only earns him an amused scoff in response. "That's funny-- I would have thought that I'd be allowed to do whatever I damn well wanted here, seeing as I'm the one running this place. Now I'm going to ask you again, _why are you late?"_

Feeling a rush of both annoyance and frustration swell up in him now and win out his insistence at not giving Stark any satisfaction, Peter can't resist whirling around to glare at the older man. "Oh I don't know, maybe it's 'cause Strange was too busy fucking me stupid for both of us to notice the time?" he says sarcastically-- though not without injecting a faux sweetness to his tone, because as much of an absolute dick Mr Stark can be, he's also his boss, and Peter can't exactly afford to lose this job.

It's not even a few moments after before he's already regretting his outburst; even in the dimness of his room Peter doesn't miss the way the older man's eyes darken at his retort, the twitching of a muscle at that sharp jaw. Faltering slightly, Peter pales but still stubbornly refuses to let his glare waver; at least, until after several heavy, tense beats later does he realise that he's standing barefoot and still scantily dressed in slips of lingerie that barely pass off as clothing.

And it seems as though this particular fact also doesn't escape Mr Stark, if the new glinting look in his hooded eyes is of any indication. If Peter were anyone else he would probably be overtaken with shame; as it is, he can't exactly be in this line of business and get uncomfortable whenever someone stares at his bare body. Yet something about the older man's fixated gaze makes him squirm a little, and he can't help but feel slightly self-conscious-- folding his arms across his chest to preserve whatever little modesty left he asks defensively _, "what?"_

That shadowed gaze flits over his face, drags down his body in a way that makes the tips of Peter's ears burn red and his cheeks heat up. By the time Tony's piercingly sharp eyes land on his again he's already a flustered mess, as he almost always is when around his boss. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Stark leans back further against the cushions and quirks an eyebrow at him, smoke billowing from his nose on the next exhale of breath. "You look like a mess."

Peter feels himself go pink, and he turns back to the dresser with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, thanks."

"You know what I mean," Stark says from behind him. Peter does; he knows that the man's referring to the smattering of hickeys on his neck, red teeth marks and bruises already blooming purple-black even as he stares at them-- gingerly running his fingertips across his collarbone he remembers how sharp Stephen's canines were sinking into his skin, and a pleasant shiver runs up his spine. "It's not the first time Strange went too far," Stark spits coldly. "He's always marking you up, and your other clients don't like it."

"So? Stephen's a regular," Peter reminds, leaner closer to the mirror to wipe the thick layer of mascara off his lashes. "He always pays well, and he stays within the limits too. Besides--" Pointedly avoiding Tony's eyes in the reflection now he mutters softly, "it's not like I mind it when he gets rough."

 

"Yes, well I do." Peter jumps at the sudden snapping of words behind him, turning around to find Stark barely a few inches away, fists clenching by his side. The older man's eyes looked more intense up close, if that were even possible; Peter can't help but feel pinned like a butterfly to the wall under that look and against his own will the coil in his lower belly tightens, blood thrumming through his veins suddenly loud in his ears.

He opens his mouth, hoping to say something to diffuse the electrifying tension that now filled the small space between them, but all that escapes him is a breathy gasp. Stepping closer, Tony reaches up to pluck the burning cigarette dangling from his lips and flick it away, then hums so low the younger boy barely catches, "I care for you, Parker. And I don't like it when I see you hurt."

"W-why?" Peter splutters weakly. "You- you're just my _pimp_."

Tony doesn't reply, instead dragging a calloused thumb slowly across his flushed cheek to cradle his jaw; Peter stands frozen to the spot, breath falling in short whines, swaying on his feet as the man's large hand crawls into his tousled hair to tug gently at its roots-- a surprised whimper tears its way past his throat, and against his will Peter's eyes flutter shut at the sensation. He feels Stark's head dip down until their noses brush, and the coarse stubble of the man's beard scrapes his cheek raw in a way that leaves his head spinning; almost as if on cue his cock twitches from where its confined in his panties, and Peter's striken with both overwhelming urge to rut his hips forward and hump his boss's leg, or to run away with mortification.

Before he can decide however, chapped lips are brushing against his ear lobe and drawing a full-bodied shiver from him, Stark's words a gruff baritone that is enough to make Peter's legs wobble dangerously. "You look really pretty tonight, Peter; you always do. Just don't break it."

Then with one final caress of his cheek the man turns away; Peter shivers at the sudden cold of his side, and by the time his eyes flutter open again Mr Stark has gone-- leaving him alone and leaning against his dresser, clutching at its counter for support and breathless with want that he can no longer deny.


End file.
